


Greetings from the Sugar Lick

by gloss



Category: due South
Genre: Alcoholism, Community: ds_flashfiction, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-22
Updated: 2005-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:19:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All [Ray's] bad plays, morning-after days/Don't mean a thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greetings from the Sugar Lick

**Author's Note:**

> For the songfic challenge on ds_flashfic. Title from The Spinanes; [lyrics here](http://www.yourghost.net/musica/spinanes/arches.htm). Thanks to G. and Di for betas that hurt so good, and to djinanna and notmonochrome for Chicago transit help.

Swish-shush, turn, dip, swish.

Arms folded, one around her waist, the other crossed over her chest, fingers resting lightly on her neck.

Lights out, only the dull streetlight glow through the windows. Dusk, as near dark as the city grew.

Swish, slide, shush-shush.

Late at night, late enough that no one was going to call, late enough that she should've been in bed hours ago, late enough that her job made law school look like a cakewalk. Late. That was when Stella danced these days.

Alone in the middle of her living room in the condo she bought for herself, with her own money, no help from anyone at all, *her* house. That was where she danced. Her stocking'd feet shushed and slid across the nice hardwood floor, the tails of her shirt lifted and dipped. She danced. Then, only then, with herself alone.

*

It was a long story. An endless story. It was about Vogel's parents' marriage. Forty-seven years of perfect understanding and companionable bliss, set back in the days when people knew their place and women listened and marriage was a forever deal.

Forever. Like the story itself.

It just kept going and going. Ray's glass was empty, sticky, yearning like his mouth for another hit, but the old geezer would. Not. Shut. Thefuckup.

Then there was Vogel's best friend, old Charley O'Neal, grizzled hair crimped over his head like he ought to be wearing a zoot suit, wide happy face and gravelly voice, *then* Charley was chiming in, and his Aunt Marcella and Uncle Bill had been married sixty-two years and were happier than Vogel's parents by far, perfectly suited to one another, never a raised voice in their little cabin down on the Delta.

So they were arguing and Ray was stuck listening. Amused, but stuck. And thirsty as fuck.

When Vogel paused his story to take a wheezy breath, the air rattling through his old chest audibly, disconcertingly, Ray leaned out into the aisle and waved.

"One more," Ray ordered and the bartender shrugged, his hand already on the bottle of rye.

Best thing about these places was the service. They never cut you off, you were treated like a respectable member of society here, like you could make up your own damn mind about how much you could put away without no mewling --.

Christ, his grammar was going again.

He got another round and drank it and thanked them for their stories and the tiles on the floor were crooked as he made his way out the door, then the pavement of the sidewalk was crooked, too, slanting one way then the other but he got a cab because he wasn't stupid never stupid about things that didn't matter. Only what counted and he did not puke in the cab thank God and the elevator swung up the shaft like a kid's yo-yo and he was home. There was carpet sliding up to meet him.

Welcome home, Ray.

*

Stella could've been here. Stella with blonde hair, long bangs she hadn't worn for twenty years, brushing her eyelashes.

Stella could've drunk him under the table. Stella could out-talk him, outsmart him, only thing he could do better was arm-wrestling and she made him keep the holster on as a handicap.

Stella could've.

Could've would've should've, darling dearheart.

*

He started coming to these old-man bars in high school. It was his thing -- one of them -- one more way to be cool. Stand out, feel real, be a man. Impress Stella.

He was himself here, same as he was down in the garage with his dad. Later, in other garages, with other guys whose hands were big and worn from work. Same as in the gym, only better. He was still skinny, still hyper, here, everywhere, but that only counted against him in the ring.

He came back, Stella's last year of college, his second year on the force. She needed quiet, he needed company. After Botrelle's trial, after his first transfer.

He came back because there was no temptation here.

Nothing here but old men, talking about cars and women. Ray could hold his own here.

Given the choice between being a (married, closeted, hatefulsonofabitchcheatingbastardsinner) fag and a drunk, there was no choice.

Better this, sodden and miserable and puking in cabs for $75 a pop.

Better this than sucking off the handyman, bending over for Stella's cousin Jack. Better than haunting clubs that played shitty music he could barely hear over the roar of his own heartbeat, packed with too many men too pretty, too confident, too fucking well-groomed with every hair in place. Their hands were soft as like girls' but *big*, men's hands, that touched him like he was coming home. Spearmint mouths, fruity drinks, backrooms with black lights and kisses that were hard and strong as the chests he curled his fingers into.

There were cocktails in those places, sugary things that went down smooth as a hummer, got you drunker than anything, pulsing through you like the godawful music.

Here, there was rye, smoke, dust, wrinkles.

No fucking contest.

He came to, stayed in, these places because he wasn't a fag. Simple as that. Long as he stayed here, he was good. Strong.

*

Charley, Vogel, O'Bannion, MacKay, Big Bob, Haskell, Daniels: None of them looked at Ray funny when he sidled back in here thirteen months after he'd left for good. He'd dried out, made another go of it with Stella, fucked that up -- perfectly sober, too, so it wasn't the drinking that was the problem -- and the separation was on.

The problem was him and he went back because it was just around the corner from his new precinct, fourth in nine years.

He had a rule he'd always observed, about not doing nothing that'd get him sacked, not on home turf. That's why he rode the Metra out to Lake Forest to haunt those washrooms, why he hung around Wicker Park all the way across town from his apartment, looking for the flicker of eyes, jerk of the head, hand closing on his shoulder, whisper of zippers and pop of buttons. You hunt sex like you chase down a perp: it was all hurry up, wait, look bored, and then blam-blam, you're getting more than you need and it's never going to be enough.

Whale on a scumbag, blow a dentist; crack a jaw, jerk him off. It all went the same place, right down into the pit of his empty burning gut, sizzling. Adrenaline that left Ray shaking and craving more.

But drinking, that he could do anywhere. That was *normal*. The guys barely registered his return.

They were talking football, preseason or Pro Bowl, it didn't fucking matter. They nodded when he talked, didn't look at him, didn't question. That was what guys did, what buddies did, made room for you in the booth and made you pick up the next round.

He hadn't shaved that morning, he didn't have to be at his desk til four, and no one *cared*. He rubbed the back of his hand over his jaw and jangled the ice melting at the bottom of his glass.

"Hair of," O'Bannion's buddy The Spic said and Ray's glass filled back up.

"Only if the dog was blonde and took my fucking name." Ray tossed back the rye and the guys nodded wisely. Sagely. Maybe wearily.

They knew. They got it. That's why they were all here.

But his mouth ran away from him, just like it always did, and he was warm inside, flushing outward, glowing like a bulb, and he explained. At length, in great detail, about needs, wants, and never the twain. Those were her words.

His words were a little, lot, rougher, not so booksmart. All he knew is she needed him.

She just didn't know it. Refused to see it, like she was the one with concussions and the squint.

Thing was, she said he couldn't see it. "Sick of showing you," was what she said. Her voice wasn't so soft then. "Truth's right there, Ray."

But she meant facts, he knew that. Facts and *truth* were different beasts.

*

Some nights she caught him watching her. Outside the building, or across the street with his head tipped up, eyes searching her balcony, or just lurking in the hall.

Some nights he couldn't wait. Impatient, the jitters lighting him like Christmas, like Noma bubble lights, garish and jolly. There weren't any Christmas lights in Stella's neighborhood. Maybe white ones, tasteful, but not anything really Christmasy, not to Ray's eyes.

He brought the jolly.

Whatever way it got going, whether he got caught or banged on her door, it always happened. Kind of like a play. Just like this, the doorjamb his best friend, holding him up, as he knocked. Her face falling as the door opened. Resigned -- who else would it be? Just Ray, always Ray.

They met like this, regular. He'd grin, she'd scowl and shake her head, then smile back. She let him in, he'd stumble a little and turn it into a soft-shoe, and they'd fight.

They fought like pros, they were good at it. Every time, same lines, new fervor, couplets he could read on the backs of his eyelids.

"It's over." "Never over."

"Moving on." "Nowhere to go."

"Why're you here?" "Why're you *here*?"

"Could try again." "No, we couldn't."

"You're drunk." "Love you, too."

Drinking, fighting, screwing, it was always perfect. Perfectly matched, perfect union. Stella was his *girl*, Stella *knew*, Stella *matched* him.

The words trailed off and in the silence, the room was weary. She was zombie-pale, the air staticky, sticking to his face and throat like cobwebs. They stared, lips working, no more fight. They stared at, past, each other, waiting. When he pulled off his shirt, she sighed but she was coming closer, her bare feet whisper-shushing on the floor and.

Some times, they were gentle. Some nights, she kissed him like an EMT, still angry, pounding on his chest, cursing him out, and it was all static. Glorious gray-white noise, mongrel noise, stuffing his ears as he sucked on her tongue. Hitched up her skirt, pulled down her stockings, danced her back. Her tasteful art applauded them when they hit the wall.

Her mouth curved against his, he couldn't get it up, stupid soggy limpdicked limpwrist. Then she swayed back, away, into the armchair and she was laughing at him, he was laughing too, mouth on her thigh and belly until she gasped.

Every time, just like this. Fight, sigh, screw, keep fighting while they screwed until they were too breathless to fight.

*

Men taste like Clorox and tidepools, everyone said so. Women taste like oysters and scallions.

But it's all salt and sugar when you got down to it.

Green things, kelp waving, no discrimination. Stella tasted like *Stella*, he didn't know what other women tasted like. Men, they tasted like sugar. Like Kool-Aid, but thicker, making him thirstier.

Facts and truth, they were what never met. Stella and his heart, all his best intentions, versus his mouth, his dick, his eyes. His weakness.

You had to court women. Talk to them, make 'em feel good, slide closer and closer until they decided to give it up. The ones you didn't have to work for, they were no good.

Men, though, you could get any guy. No courting necessary, just lift a brow and it was back into a stall or on your knees on a soggy floor while the train shook through the tunnel. Or, or. Or like this, hand on yourself--himself--pulling and yanking, teeth in his lip and one finger knuckle-deep in his own hole and he came like an animal, bullets of jizz on his chest, chin, glob on his fucking *eye*.

This one had old dirt in his knuckles, aftershave on his pubes. That one had aquarium eyes that don't quite match his dark hair, cropped so short it was kitten-tongue rough on Ray's palm. This one, that one, lost count.

Lost count and track, but they all tasted good, perfect cocktails, sweet and sweat, salt and cream.

He spit and gargled and swallowed Listerine.

*

Ray had a routine, such as it was. Favorite booth, last from the door, the seat mended with duct tape across its middle like a Caesarean scar.

And he left tips like "Don't bet on the horses" and "Never eat yellow snow."

He didn't come here to drink. You came to commune and the drinks, they lubricated that. You-he-they came to talk. Complain but light-like, natural, the bitching just part of the routine. Another day, another paycheck, one more night opening up dark and alone in front of him. You, them. Dark all around.

*

When the pull got too strong, he watched her, when he couldn't stay away. He'd watch her dance alone. It was okay, though, it was the right thing to do. She needed him.

She needed him, because he needed her. Like algebra or economics, like that, and conservation of energy. Nothing should ever go to waste and idle hands, all that, waste not, want her.

He needed her. Needed her because he'd never know anything better. With her, it was perfect, always would be.

Because he hated the taste of this shit, going down and coming back up.

Because he wasn't queer. Couldn't be, he loved *her*.

*

"Never let a woman know your secrets," Charley said and the rest of the guys nodded in agreement.

That was Ray's first, only, perfect, mistake. But seeing as how he couldn't take it back and do it over, it only made sense to go to her.

He could do that. He had to do that, and the rye tasted sweet as Tang as he drained it, slammed down the glass, got up from the table. He'd get her back, do it right, and they raised a toast to him as he strutted away. He was hot shit, no doubt there, he could do this.

Shouldn't drive like this, not when he was toasty-warm inside and the streets were slicked with ice, and he waited for the train. Two stops down, into the tunnel, wait for the transfer.

Big guy, quarterback-perfect, his cheeks dimpling while Ray waited and flexed his fingers and stole glimpses.

One for the road, that was all, as Ray followed Joe Namath into the blacked-out washroom. Just a last gasp, hurrah, finale farefuckingwell. He put his whole self into it, folding down to his knees, nosing the taut zipper, then licked at the head like a kid in candy while the quarterback cursed low and husky.

*

It was past midnight when he got to Stella's. In the elevator, he guzzled two cans of Dr. Pepper and shifted from foot to foot, swaying, always saying, so hard in his pants he was ready to burst.

They made it to the bed tonight.

Afterward, he watched her sleep, like a girl in a movie, gone black and white in the moonlight. Ingrid Bergman, leaving him behind.

Ray kept waiting for the subtitles, for something to explain what the hell was going on, why he didn't ever feel better.

  



End file.
